


It's not...like that

by fangirlsweruntheworld



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Based on a Tumblr Post, Drug Addiction, Four plus One, John is a Good Friend, M/M, Mycroft is actually a softie, Overdose, Post-Episode: The Abominable Bride, Post-Episode: s03e03 His Last Vow, Post-The Reichenbach Fall, Recreational Drug Use, Sherlock is a drug addict, Sherlock third person point of view, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-24
Updated: 2016-01-24
Packaged: 2018-05-15 22:06:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5801986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fangirlsweruntheworld/pseuds/fangirlsweruntheworld
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based on a tumblr post: What if every time that Sherlock says to John after TAB “Get out, I need to go to my mind palace” John doesn’t move until Sherlock looks at him and says in the smallest voice, “It’s not…like that”</p><p>Four times Sherlock said he had to go to his mind palace, but actually went to get high, and the one time he stayed clean.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's not...like that

**Author's Note:**

> The time line is roughly based of Benedict Cumberbatch's age. So Sherlock is born in 1976, and everything else is basically hinted at what time it is.  
> Mycroft may seem a bit OOC but honestly I love Mycroft and I believe after the special he does have a heart and really does care about his brother. Especially if he wanted to Sherlock to make a list, he wouldn't have done that to humiliate him, he did it to watch over so yeah.  
> Also, I don't think Sherlock could have taken such lethal drugs when he was younger, and not still have taken them. So this is basically based off the idea he is still very much an addict.  
> Beware, I am extremely american so try and disregard me trying to sound authentic when I clearly am not.

  1. December 1994.



Sherlock had been home from university for Christmas for approximately sixty-three hours so far. He loathed everything about the school. His chemistry class was filled with idiots, his teachers weren’t even close to being intelligent enough to teach him things, he didn’t already know, and his fellow classmates bored him beyond belief. Some girls tried to flirt with him and the guys just ignored him, whispering things behind his back, as if he couldn’t tell they were doing it.

His peers would say, “That Holmes kid is such a sodding freak...” Or when he deduced openly during a class of his, they’d just tell him to piss off. One tried to beat him up after their classes, but was blindsided to learn Sherlock had picked up on how to box. That bloke didn’t stand a chance, no matter how scrawny and lanky Sherlock was.

Who needed those arses anyways?

Sherlock had been home from uni for sixty-tree hours and his relatives were already driving him crazy. Like actually crazy. He wanted to rip the dark curls out of his head. Mycroft was bragging about his new job, saying how excited he is to work with the British government, and carry around a pager, all those mediocre things he found fun.

 He couldn’t possibly be able to listen to this anymore!

“And William, how exactly has university been treating you?” His aunt Mabel remarked to him. He hated when his family used his real name. It bugged the hell out of him. Why couldn’t they just listen to his requests?

“No, no, he likes to be referred to by his middle name,” Mrs. Holmes remarked to her sister.

“Well isn’t that a bit ridiculous,” She scolded Sherlock. “You have a perfectly fine name that your mother gifted you. What would be the point of having first names if you aren’t even going to use it.” Sherlock squinted his eyes in her direction.

_Her wedding ring has been taken off five times in the past two weeks._

_She has been wearing more makeup._

_Her voice has been hoarse from screaming, presumably with Uncle Richard, or maybe screaming for another reason… She has been sleeping with another man._

_I can always bring that up, and start something._ Sherlock thought to himself, but then disregarded it.

His mother would be furious and she loves Christmas time. He wouldn’t dare upset her now in front of everyone. She’d surely throw his experiment out of the fridge and it was vital to see the progress, without anything or anyone contaminating it.

Mycroft shot Sherlock a look from across the room. _He has gained 6 pounds since the last time I saw him._

Sherlock just rolled his eyes at his brother and sat back against the couch. The plate of appetizers sitting in his lap looked most unappealing to him at the moment. He needed something stronger than some lousy stale crackers and prepackaged cheese.

Glancing out the window, Sherlock saw one of his older cousins smoking a cigarette. _Sixth one in the past four hours._

Even a cigarette couldn’t help him now. His mind was racing and he couldn’t stop it. His hands began to tremble in his lap. It was necessary that he got some soon.

He had tried all different things in secondary school, but was properly introduced to cocaine in uni. It heightened all his senses, while still keeping his mind controlled and calm. Deductions weren’t just blurted out, whenever he felt like it, he wasn’t as much of a smart arse, and frankly it just made Sherlock feel euphoric. Which was good, because that was what its function was. Sometimes, he would use right before class, making his teachers and the silly remarks bearable. He’d just be able to listen about Liouville’s Theorem and the construction of transcendental numbers.

With controlled usage nobody would be able to find out he was actually high.

Now, sitting on this crummy couch in his sitting room, surrounded by his repulsive relatives, and Mycroft, he was absolutely craving some.

Sherlock placed his fingers under his chin and tried to stop his whirling mind.

_Aunt Jane just adopted a dog, and turns out she hates it._

_Cousin Fredrick broke up with his girlfriend the other night, he is devastated._

Ugh, relationships. Sherlock couldn’t stand them. Sentiment, love, admiration, all just chemical defects.

Everyone in uni seemed to want to hook up one way or another, with someone. Parties, getting drunk, smoking marijuana. The only time Sherlock ever went to a party was because he found out one of his class mates smuggled in some opium. He figured out that night he did not prefer it over cocaine, but it was definitely better than some prescription pills he had whilst in secondary.

_Mum burnt the first biscuits she tried to bake. She is staring intensely at these atop the coffee table. She doesn’t like oatmeal flavor; she wants everyone else to try them. Looking for praise. Made from scratch. Not too impressive for a mathematician._

_Dad is itching to turn telly on. He won’t stop looking over at the clicker. Some game. Dull._

_Mycroft is being a smart-arse as always._ That one wasn’t hard to deduce.

_Shut up, shut up, shut up!_

Sherlock popped up from his spot on the couch. The syringe was hiding in his room, under his mattress, just waiting to be used. He longed for a fix, needed one. Mycroft shot another scolding look at his younger brother. Mummy turned in her seat, and craned her neck to look up at her lanky son.

“Sherlock, do you need something?” She asked. He looked around the room. He was getting dizzy, and everyone could probably smell the anxiety that was wafting off of his body. He could say that he needed to use the loo, and then say he didn’t feel well.

The cheese. He could say it was the cheese. It upset his stomach, he could say he would just lay down in his room upstairs for a bit. There was a place he knew a couple boys had gone near is old school. It’d be just a ten-minute walk from his home. There he would be able to get even more than the small syringe under his bed. He would be able to bask in the feeling of having the drug racing through his veins, slow down his mind, get away from these people.

“I, uh…need to use the loo.” The young boy stammered.

When he was out of the sitting room, he walked towards the stairs that led to his bedroom. Footsteps sounded behind him, and Sherlock turned to see his older brother behind him, hands in his pockets, a stern look on his face.

“Can I not piss in private now, Mike?” Sherlock knew he hated when people tried to shorten his name. He complained, saying things like “Can you not struggle to say the whole thing, or must I hire you a tutor.”

“I’m checking on you, brother mine. You don’t seem well”

  _Was his tone…sincere?_

“Maybe I just need to use the loo.” Sherlock remarked.

“You can tell me if you’re not okay, you realize that right. I am your brother after all, no matter how insufferable and stupid you are to me.”

The younger Holmes brother rolled his eyes. “I don’t need you taking care of me. I have myself handled.”

“Now Sherlock, I know uni may be hard sometimes…” Sherlock cut him off. “We are not having this conversation. I need to piss, then go to my mind palace.” He turned before he could see the look of bewilderment on Mycroft’s face.

Four hours later, Mycroft Holmes found his younger brother one syringe away from an overdose, on a browned mattress in a rotten house.

Mycroft needed to remember to monitor him next time he said he would be going to his mind palace. When Sherlock came to the next morning a sweaty and sick mess, Mycroft demanded the making of a list.

“Christmas, Sherlock, it was Christmas.” Mycroft reprimanded, whilst he believed his brother to be asleep.

  1. June 2004



“The woman’s body was found in the river. Any and all physical evidence that may have been there has been washed off and there were no other clues we could find. That’s why we called you today, Mr. Holmes.”  Inspector Lestrade had told the new consulting detective.

Technically, it was Myrcroft that had organized for him to get this job. Sherlock had used just a bit too much last time, and he was now being closely scrutinized and observed. Mycroft voiced to him that if he ever saw a list that long again, he would be delivering him to hospital, to get detoxed, himself.  Sherlock had told him to find him a crime he could solve and he wouldn’t need to find a fix as often. Mycroft seemed bewildered and questioned why Sherlock would want to solve crimes, but he was just brushed off by the younger man.

Telling Mycroft he’d stop wasn’t wholly a lie, he was going to try to not use as much, but being high was much better than dealing with the idiots that surrounded him.

Especially this imbecile hat was standing in front of him. How did he possibly get the position of Detective Inspector? Was Scotland Yard really that terrible, that they deemed this guy…what was his name? _Oh, unimportant. Deleted it anyways. Irrelevant._

The crime seemed minimal. Young girl, 23, found naked and dead in a river on the outskirts of London. _Odd place to dump a body, don’t you think?_

Sherlock peered over at the detective again. _Ring box in his left breast pocket. Been sitting there for a week now. Plans to propose…girlfriend or boyfriend? Too dense to tell. Premature grey hair, roughly late thirties, maybe even early forties. Loves his job, maybe too much. Hasn’t solved many cases, or any._

He studied the crew standing around him. A few young women, one introduced as Sally Donovan. _Adulterer._ A forensic investigator Philip Anderson. _Excessive Cheater. Reminds him exactly of the boys at uni. Hate him._

The rest were just faces among the crowd; he wasn’t bothering to learn the names of. Despite being uninterested in learning who they were, his brain was racing, and his palms were sweating. Sherlock reached up to wipe at his brow, and his hand came back moist. The sweats were coming back. He hadn’t been able to use anything in around six days. Especially considering he was temporarily holding residence at Mycroft’s before settling in somewhere in or close to London.

He felt the baggie that was sitting in his coat pocket. He knew he shouldn’t have brought it to the crime scene, but the crinkling sound the bag made assured Sherlock that he did in fact still have his stash. Additional to the small baggie, he had a mini notebook along with it, knowing he would still be high by the time he would be returning to Mycroft’s. Surely, the queen would be demanding a list if he didn’t have one already ready.

He wouldn’t be able to resist it any longer. He needed to get high or he might end up punching that forensic investigator square in the jaw.

Sherlock studied the body, but like DI Lestrade had said, no physical evidence was found.

 Except, he noticed, a ring had been removed from her left hand, probably a diamond, probably an engagement ring. Her fingers were bruised, so there had been some kind of fight back, and her wrist had a black and blue hand print. “Check with the boyfriend, fiancé, any guy she may have been seen with multiple times. It was him.

_Why he killed her, don’t know. Accident? Couldn’t have been._

Lestrade pulled out a funky looking mobile and began tapping into it, then he pressed it to his ear. “You coming back with us?” Sherlock could sense the tremor growing in his hands and knew he needed some kind of fix sooner rather than later. This case wasn’t enough. He needed more to satisfy his growing hunger.

“I need to go to my mind palace.” He said instead. Which was probably better than admitting he was low key a cocaine junkie, and he was dying for the chance to get high. Not that Sherlock would ever actually admit that, but shouldn’t this detective be able to tell all the signs of a user? The red dilated eyes, his skinny frame, and the apparent dark circles under his eyes.

“Your brother told me about that. A memory technique of sorts? Says it is dangerous and I should probably not let you do it.” Sherlock scoffed.

“My brother is an insufferable idiot; he doesn’t know what he is talking about.” Of course Mycroft would tell this inspector to babysit him.

Lestrade just nodded in agreement. “Been there, my sister acts like she is the bloody queen of England. I’ll let you know if we need you back for the rest of the case. I appreciate the help.” He gave Sherlock a pat on the shoulder and left the way all of Scotland Yard had gone. Lestrade didn’t seem to have a mean bone in his body. _Gross._

Early the next morning, Sherlock arrived back to Mycroft’s house with watery, bloodshot eyes, evident needle marks in his arms, and the note dangling from his fingertips.

  1. February 2011



“Get out, I need to go to my mind palace.” Sherlock huffed to his flat mate, John. It had been six months since his last fix. The Work hadn’t been helping. Ever since Moriarty and their almost fatal encounter at the pool.

It was one of the scarier moments of his life, which happened very rarely. Moriarty was one of the few rare specimens who could actually get an emotion, such as fear, out of the great Sherlock Holmes.  But it wasn’t fear for his life, nor was it what Moriarty could do. His terror was rather because John’s life was on the line. Everything stopped the second John jumped at Moriarty. His heart stopped. If John was to die, because of him, he would never be able to forgive himself. _Ugh, sentiment._

Irrespective of the point he and John had survived the happenstance, Sherlock couldn’t stop thinking about it. Things like what could’ve happened if Moriarty’s phone hadn’t rung, if Sherlock had left when John told him to, if the bomb had gone off before even Moriarty introduced himself, all plagued his mind.

No cases had been good enough, none came above a five. It was _exhausting_! He found his secret stash of cigarettes that John had hidden, and he smoked the whole pack not even in two days. His bedroom reeked of the smell of smoke from sneaking it out the window while John slept.

Nevertheless, it didn’t help. Nothing ever helped!

Well…one thing did help. Someone in his homeless network had the purest material, and he got it at a discount price. Sure it was supposed to go towards Mrs. Hudson for the rent, but she excused it. He hid it in his suit pocket, inside his armoire. John barely ever worried about him using. When they were solving the pink lady murder, John had been astonished to find out he was a junkie…user, rather.

Mycroft never informed John when Sherlock would bring him a list. He just would summon John with his car and scold him for not taking better care of his flat mate. John always assumed it was about the smoking or the dangerous cases. After all, Mycroft did seem like he cared about his brother, maybe even just a little bit.

Here and now, Sherlock needed to feel the cocaine, feel the morphine, feel the heroin; whichever drug he decided to choose tonight.

“What, now?” John sputtered from his chair.

“Yes, leave, I need to be alone, without you hovering around me, and thinking up the room with stupid thoughts.” Sherlock didn’t mean to be so rude to John, but he was getting anxious, fast. John shot him a dirty look.

“You can’t be serious, what do you want me to do? Stand out in the snow, while you think? We aren’t even on a case right now.”

“John…” Sherlock paused. He couldn’t wait much longer, the idea of being high was now pounding persistently at his mind. John couldn’t be here to see him stoop so low.

“What about Jenna…Jessica? Couldn’t you go devote some time to her, rather than sending her love notes through your mobile?”

John undoubtedly looked angry at how inconsiderate Sherlock was being.

“I don’t see why I can’t just go up into my room if you want to be alone so bad…”

“Get out! I need to go to my mind palace, now!” Sherlock shouted. He was getting agitated. _Why was he not high by now?_

Rising up from his chair, John walked over to the door, seized his coat swiftly and left without a single word.

Sherlock almost missed the sound of the doors slamming because he was too busy getting out of his suit jacket and rolling up the sleeve of his burgundy button-down.

John texted him later that night with just a few words. _Spending the night at Jennifer’s flat, don’t wait up._

Sherlock didn’t look at the message when it chimed in on his mobile. He was face down on the sofa, a quickly scribbled list on the coffee table, and the needle, and the now emptied heroin that filled his veins, hanging from his loose fingers. His anxiety and persistence to get high got the best of him and he may have miscalculated, in the slightest, putting just a bit larger dosage than normal.

The drug almost did not feel as good as it usually did knowing he had deceived and hurt John in the process. _Almost._

  1. April 2014



“Hoo-Hoo, I heard John asked you to be his best man. How exciting!” Mrs. Hudson exclaimed to Sherlock while entering into his flat. Sherlock was sprawled against the couch, his blue dressing gown swathed closely around his body.

“Yes.” Sherlock answered shortly. He had been laying on this couch for four hours, roughly.  John had stopped by early in the morning and asked the ‘big question’, so he preferred to name it. Sherlock had been shocked, surprised, and elated. Never had he heard John call him his best friend before. And when Sherlock questioned him, John seemed bewildered that Sherlock hadn’t realized it.

But how could he? Never had he had a friend before, Redbeard was the only thing that came close to being his friend, but Redbeard had been gone for quite a while. Sherlock never believed in sentiment or friendship, he knew it ended worse than he could imagine.

Take John as a prime example. He undoubtedly has believed Sherlock to be his best friend for rather some time. By attaching himself to Sherlock, his attachment to him left him hopeless and in despair as a result of seeing his best friend dead on the pavement outside of St. Bart’s He reacted as any sane human being would.

Sherlock strained as hard as he could to not develop any sort of feelings whatsoever towards John Watson. He wouldn’t ever be able to stand not having John by him all the time, nor could he ever endure seeing John dead on a slab in front of him.

Regardless of trying so very hard, it wasn’t any use. He has grown fond of the man, maybe even more fond than he would ever care to admit out loud, or even in his head. Frankly, his new found ‘feelings’ were wreaking havoc on his mind.

Mary, oh wonderful Mary. She helped John survive. Mycroft had told him, after he came back from the dead, that he had kept a close eye on the doctor.  Mycroft said for the first few months after Sherlock’s fall John always kept a drink in his hand. He rarely went to work, and continued to stay locked up in his flat with not communication to the outside world. Until he met Mary quite a few months ago, now.

John always formed quick relationships with various females in his life, and maybe even men in his army days. Therefore, it wasn’t a surprise he attached himself to Mary. It may not have been a surprise that he fell in love with Mary, but it still hurt like a bullet to the chest seeing them together.

Sherlock hated that _feeling._ Feeling…jealous. Was that the word he should be using? Was he really jealous of Mary and John’s domestic relationship? Honestly, he shouldn’t be. He didn’t have romantic feelings toward John Watson. Did he?

Mrs. Hudson was tidying up around the flat while chattering on about senseless wedding details; what she would be wearing, what Molly Hooper would be wearing, whether or not Harry Watson would actually show up, wondering what John’s wedding vows would sound like, what Mary’s would sound like.

It was downright nauseating to be listening to it. The sole only reason Sherlock was attending this wedding was because John wanted him to, and he couldn’t possibly say no, especially after being asked to be the best man. Really, he was just dreading going. One he detested people, two he wasn’t sure he could stand actually seeing John and Mary being tied down together in matrimony.

He ached to brush these thoughts out of his head immediately. He couldn’t stand to sound like he was pining, even if it was just in his own mind. Getting out of his mind was what he really needed right now. To escape his thoughts and his feelings.

Mrs. Hudson was in the kitchen making a pot of tea though and he couldn’t get a fix with her in there.

Mrs. Hudson was absolutely harmless but she had a tendency to walk in and out of places without a care in the world. Even if he told her to leave, and he stayed to get high, she could easily just come back up without any notice, claiming something like “I forgot to give biscuits with your tea!” If she did that, she would see him high as a kite, and she wasn’t a total idiot. She would be able to tell if he had used or not.

He needed to leave 221B, find a den somewhere, and shoot up among the ridiculous junkies that inhabited the crack houses. It was the only way he could stop his raging thoughts and the ideas of sentiment towards John.

Sherlock sprang up from the couch, wobbling a bit on his feet and went to put his long coat on. “No need for tea, Mrs. Hudson. I won’t be staying.”

She poked her head out of the kitchen and peered at Sherlock’s standing form near the door. “Where are you going out to?” She inquired.

“I need to go to my mind palace. Somewhere away from all this thinking, I need some peace and quiet.”

She laughed lightly. “Oh, you don’t need to make up an elaborate excuse to let me know you want me to go back downstairs. I can come make you tea later.” That was precisely what Sherlock knew would happen, and couldn’t not get high tonight, and he especially could not let Mrs. Hudson see him high. John would end up finding out, and he would be beyond furious. Sherlock couldn’t risk upsetting John. He felt that they were still slightly on thin ice after the whole “I’m not dead,” debacle, no matter how many months have passed.

“No, no, I think I need some fresh air anyways.” He tied his dark blue scarf tightly around his neck and turned his back to his landlady. He didn’t dare let her see the expression that was sitting atop his face.

It was a wonder that he didn’t forget his phone, because if he hadn’t, there would’ve been no way to contact Mycroft to come and get him from a drug house out in Kensington. He was in no way close to being sober enough to make it back Baker Street. Even if he could’ve made his way there, he still would’ve raised suspicion to the activities he had taken part in for the past three hours.

Surprisingly, it was Mycroft that was there to pick him up, not his car or even the women who went by the name Anthea, but his big brother and all his three-piece suit wearing glory.

Sherlock was taken back to Mycroft’s home, and was given a spare bedroom to crash in. This would be a hard high to come down from he knew it. Once his face hit the pillow, he was out.

Hours later, he awoke groggily, to a wet flannel being pressed softly to his forehead. He opened his eyes to see Mycroft’s figure sitting on the edge of the bed. The hand holding the flannel was connected to Mycroft and Sherlock was taken back by the fact his brother was actually taking care of him. His older brother’s expression wasn’t angry as it usually was when he delivered him a list, instead it was pretty solemn.

“What was it this time, Sherlock?” He debated delivering him a snide remark and brushing him off, but his arms and muscles ached and his head was throbbing too much to think of something witty. Additionally, he did rather enjoy the feeling of the cold cloth against his feverish skin.

“John…” Sherlock started, and he heard Mycroft sigh heavily. “Asked me to be best man.” Even in the darkness of the room, he could see that his brother’s expression had fallen quite a bit.

“Oh, brother mine, what have I told you? You shouldn’t have gotten involved.” Sherlock whimpered slightly at his comment, and then wanted to kick himself for crying out at all. He was stronger than this. Than these emotions and feelings toward his friend. He lived years with John having serious relationships, and they never affected him this way. Not to the extremity of coming close to a slight overdose. John’s wedding is what will make him happy, and Sherlock longed for John’s happiness. He should not be crying over it. He shouldn’t be crying over anything, especially in the presence of Mycroft.

“Your list, where is it?” The usual soft tone Mycroft tries to keep when speaking to Sherlock high was gone this time. Sherlock knew he was disappointed he had gone right back down the rabbit hole. Sherlock mumbled something and Mycroft walked over to his large coat strewn across the ground near the bedroom door. For a moment he searched the pockets then came back with a crumpled paper. He inspected it for a moment, then said in a disappointed voice. “Oh Sherlock, this man is going to be the death of you.”

+5. February 2014.  

“The mother! It was the mother! It couldn’t possibly have been the mother!” Sherlock bellowed rushing through the door to his flat at Baker Street. Taking two steps at a time, John followed his friend close behind him.

“I don’t understand. They found her DNA literally everywhere, how could it not be her?” John plopped down in his arm chair, holding his jacket in his hands. Sherlock was still standing pacing. His fingers were shaking from all the adrenaline and exhilaration of having this new case. It had sounded like a least a five, but hurriedly sky rocketed to at least an eight. He threw his lean body down into his large leather chair across from John. His fingers tapped away against his bouncing legs. He had a large smile on his face, and his eyes were searching around the room for evidence that wasn’t in their living room.

“I don’t…” Sherlock paused and John squinted at him, with a smirk, he always loved watching Sherlock solve a case “I need to go to my mind palace!” Sherlock exclaimed after a couple of seconds. John’s expression immediately fell and his posture changed drastically. The solider in him made its place at home in the way he was holding his body at the moment.

Sherlock hadn’t realized what made John change his entire attitude to this, and then realized what he had said.

It was the plane, him being on the plane. Sherlock had been so high that day. He knew he wouldn’t have been able to bear saying goodbye to John, again, so naturally he took something. A small dosage of morphine, his favorite cocaine, and then had a bit of heroine stashed away in his coat pocket. It was extremely dangerous to take all of that be he knew it. He knew he would tell John he loved him, or that he was actually going to his death, and it just wasn’t something he was going to allow happening.

However, he didn’t expect to hear that Moriarty was back, and on every screen in London. The second Sherlock heard his brother say it over the phone, everything stopped. He thought for a moment he was having a heart attack because of the cocaine, but really it was just the overwhelming sensation of fear. Moriarty had shot his brains out in front of him on that roof that fateful day, and he couldn’t possibly be back. Nothing about Jim Moriarty was decent, he evoked danger and death upon everyone that was in a ten-mile radius to his presence.

In that occurrence, Sherlock knew he needed to figure out how to do it. In perspective, using more drugs wasn’t the vigilant thing to do. All he knew was that he needed to stop his mind from going out of control. In all honesty, he did not expect that to be the one time he almost died of an overdose.

He was a terrible person, he knew that. He knocked on death’s door more times than he could count now, and he also knew they all affected John. But in his own defense, when he told the three people sitting in front of him on the plane he had to go to his Mind Palace to solve the Emilia Ricolletti case, he really believed he was in his mind palace, not in a drug induced dream. All of it was just one big dream, not actually abandoning John, being famous and likeable by the public eye, solving all kinds of cases with John.

 In his head, it was all such a simpler time.

But John was raging, absolutely hysterical seeing Sherlock slipping in and out of consciousness so easily. Sherlock had insisted that he just wanted to go back to Baker Street, instead of Bart’s. He said he would be fine if he just had some time to sleep it off.

John, being the doctor he was, agreed without waiver to staying with him that night, just to make sure he didn’t nod off in his sleep. Sherlock protested just for effect, but in actuality was quite happy to have John there to take care of him, and thankful.

He spent the next eight hours feeling like absolute hell. It started with a terrible fever. Whenever Sherlock was coming down from a high previous times in his past, the fever was never as bad as this. He laid helpless in his bed, shivers racking his body so bad his teeth were chattering against each other so hard, John was worried he would break a tooth.

Despite his immense shivering, his body was covered with a thick layer of sweat. John had a cold flannel pressed against his body, triggering the memory of the time Mycroft had done the same.

John was ever so patient with Sherlock the entire night, like a concerned father over their child who is sick for the first time. He brushed back his drenched curls when they would stick to his forehead. When the sheets of his bed got soiled because he threw up on them, because he couldn’t make it to the bucket in time, John helped him get out of the bed, and changed them for him.

Even when he began having small hallucinations and panic attacks, John was there to comfort and soothe him back to sleep. He stayed up the entire night, checking his pulse, applying cold cloths to his body, and cleaning up after all his messes. Sherlock tried to never cry in front of John or an, but the pain in his muscles grew unbearable and he sobbed against John’s chest at two in the morning.

Never once did John scold or ridicule Sherlock for what he did. His bed side manner was ever as charming as he was, and Sherlock felt strange seeing this side of John, actually of both of them.

John told him stories while trying to help him go back to sleep. Sherlock adored the sound of John’s voice, that was one thing he could actually admit to himself.

Around four-thirty in the morning, Sherlock became responsive again. He was able to sit up slightly, without having to hunch over from the nausea. He had begged John to go to sleep for just a little while, but as soon as he shifted to sit up against his headboard John stirred from the seat next to the bed.

“Do you need something? Are you going to get sick again?” John’s eyes grew wide with concern. He was going to be the best parent/

Sherlock shook his head quickly, then regretted it because he felt like his brain was sloshing around in his head. “Just needed to sit up.” His voice sounded hoarse. Sherlock paused for a moment, “You don’t have to stay in the chair, its rather uncomfortable.” John nodded, standing up stretching his back.

Once John was settled into the bed, he closed his eyes and resting his hands on the planes of his stomach. “Can I ask you something?” He said after a couple of moments of silence.

Sherlock didn’t say anything, so John just kept talking. “Why did you take all that? And don’t give me any of that “I had to solve the Moriarty case,” shit. Mycroft said you had gotten high before you got on the plane.”

Sherlock sighed, he could tell him the truth, that he couldn’t bear to leave John without letting him know his true feelings. Instead he said “I’m an addict, John. I don’t like to admit it, but I can’t lie to you.”

Shock was apparent on John’s face regarding Sherlock’s confession to him. “When did you start?”

Sighing, Sherlock went into the story of his growing drug habits. “When I was young I didn’t like my mind. Sometimes I still don’t but when I was just a boy it was particularly bad. Mycroft would say things to me like ‘Oh you’re just an idiot Sherlock,’ or ‘Why would anything you say matters.” John made an incoherent sound. “Like I said, he was a rubbish big brother.” This time John actually chuckled.

Continuing with his story Sherlock spoke on, “When I was seven I broke my arm really bad. It was in several different places and I cried the whole way to hospital. Mycroft made fun of me. However, when I got to hospital, they started by putting me on morphine. Big first mistake they made, because little old me enjoyed the feeling of not feeling. I started learning to deduce and observe at a young age, so while I was on even the small dosage of morphine, I could only concentrate on the feeling it was having over my body.” As John laid silent, Sherlock began to feel the exhaustion from the repercussions of his overdose. He fought it and continued to tell his story, he had never admitted to anyone.

“Mum had a slight hip problem when I was in secondary school. I was sixteen years old and was being ridiculed and made fun of because of my behavior. Even my teachers didn’t like me. But mum had left over pills from after her surgery. I had been diagnosed with slight sociopathic tendencies early on. I thought it would be just a swell idea to take them, and of course, I rather enjoyed how they made me feel. Mycroft suspected that I had been high as soon as he had come back home from his job internship for holiday.” A small sheen of sweat coated Sherlock’s body and he knew very well he shouldn’t be overexerting himself, especially after everything he put himself through, but he didn’t want this sincere moment to end. Tomorrow John would be going back to Mary and Sherlock would be left alone, retching into the loo, most likely.

“Cocaine was introduced to me in university. I took a fast liking to it, instantaneously. Uni was hard for me, and being in high in class just made me learn even quicker than I already could. Cocaine, then heroin, morphine, opium. I tried them all. When I was twenty, Mycroft found me in a crack den, close to dead. I was nearly as high as I was today, probably just as bad now thinking about it. That is when he insisted for a list. Since then, I have delivered Mycroft three hundred and seventeen lists.” Sherlock couldn’t keep going any longer. The more he kept his mouth open, the more he felt he may get sick again.

John doesn’t talk for quite a while, and Sherlock wonders if he had fallen asleep or not. He looks at the clock on his bed side table. Almost five, the sun would be coming up soon. Sherlock could feel his fever coming back and he was dreading the next part of the coming down. He knew John wouldn’t let him wean of the drugs slowly, because that would entail him having to take more, and John would have to go cold turkey. The withdrawal symptoms would be starting very soon, and would feel just as bad, if not worse, as everything he felt this night.

“I’m going to help you get through this Sherlock Holmes.” John whispered before Sherlock fell back into his state of sleep.

But tonight was much different than that night. That was three weeks ago, and Sherlock finally felt well enough to go out onto a case Lestrade needed him for. He had anticipated it to be quite boring and not enough to get him the fix he so desperately had been craving after his withdrawal.

The case ended up being a success in the sense Sherlock actually could come back home and think, and study, theorize all about it. John had accompanied him, which Sherlock enjoyed even more.

And he screwed up tonight. Saying he needed to go to his Mind Palace just triggered his abysmal overdose in the beginning of the year. Sherlock had said many times before that he wanted to go to his Mind Palace, when in reality he was just going to shoot up to turn his mind off.

That was the exact opposite of what Sherlock wanted today. He didn’t have any boredom to relieve and he needed the racing track of his hard drive that was his mind. Solving the case was imperative at this moment.

John got the wrong impression and Sherlock was frustrated with himself that he ever did something to let John think so very poorly of him.

“No, John it isn’t like that. I…haven’t done that since…” He trailed off. Nothing he could say would convince John he was sober. “John, I need you to put your faith in me. I need you to. Please.” Sherlock’s tone was essentially begging his friend.

John had been standing up close to his chair, his fists bunching in his jacket. Seeing his friend’s devastating expression, he released his grip and sat slowly back down into his chair.

“Sherlock…” John began before getting cut off.

“John,” Sherlock just needed to say it, and let John interpret it whichever way he wanted. “I…love…you. I don’t ever want to do anything to hurt you the way I did…again.” It was the hardest thing he ever said to anyone ever.

John looked stunned, but grinned over at his best friend. “Who knew you could have such a soft side?”

Sherlock’s tension fell off of his shoulders. “Oh, piss off.” He was left smiling. John reached over and placed his hand on Sherlock’s knee, squeezing lightly. “I told you before. We’re going to get through this. And it will be together.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> This was my first ever fic with the Sherlock fandom so I hope it wasn't terrible.


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